


Something Extraordinary

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professors, Asperger Syndrome, Castiel Has Asperger's, Crushes, Cute, Dean Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Professor Castiel (Supernatural), Professor Dean Winchester, Professor Sam Winchester, Professors, Some angst, Well Balanced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 17:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “Does success equate to attractiveness?”Dean shrugs. “Yeah… yeah, in most cases, unfortunately.”“Huh. Well, I suppose that makes sense, actually, considering Herimstein’s study on rats and how much cheese they could carry on their—” Cas cuts himself off with a laugh. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”





	Something Extraordinary

**Author's Note:**

> So!!!! This has been sitting on my laptop for a while so that being said, if there's any grammar issues, please consult the directory of my life, under "When I Still Manage to Mess Up".
> 
> I hope you enjoy! I do not have, nor do I know anyone with Asperger's. That being said, I did do my research, but if anything is amiss or is offensive, I apologize. It's never in my intent to romanticize any physical, psychological, mental, emotional, or neurological disorder. I aim to write pieces like this to simply tell a story, and if I can bring a little more awareness to things society likes to keep hush-hush, then it's a good day.

"Did I interrupt something?”

“Oh shut up,” Sam says without any heat, unlike Becky in the second row. When he glances back at her from the door frame, he’s met with two halves of a Sharpied heart on the sides of her arms she’s using to prop up her chin.

He turns back to Dean, who can’t help but grin at the sight of Sam so flustered. It’s his first-year teaching at Lawrence University and his brother is already doing _great_ at keeping his students interested.

“I _was_ discussing Zeus’ rise to power after The Creation of Mortals against the Titans, bu—yeah, what’s up?”

“Wow.” Dean shakes his head. “It’s amazing your Fabio hair and Sasquatch height can distract from all that _nerd.”_

“ **Dean,** what is it?”

Dean licks his lips.

“Oh my God.” Sam crosses his arms, triggering an eye roll so dramatic it can have its own one-man play. “No. Not again.”

“I didn’t even ask anything yet!”

“You didn’t have to, I know that look!” Sam defends. “You want advice on Cas.”

“Remind me, why did you drop out of law school again?”

As Sam looks like he’s about to throw down a whole monologue, Benny—or as his French students know him, Professor Lafitte—passes by, water canteen in hand, “He talkin’ about Cas again?”

Sam angles his head with pointed brows. Dean throws down a huff. “Am I really that obvious?”

“Dean, what’s so hard about asking him out?” Sam sighs. “I’ve seen you ask out dozens of people. You’re like the only person I know who _isn’t_ afraid of rejection. You asked out Professor Bass with a _Holocaust pun.”_

Dean visibly cringes even thinking about it. “Yeah, that wasn’t a period in my life I was proud of.”

“That was _last month,”_ Sam scoffs, “So what is it? What is it about him?”

Looking down, Dean scuffs the tip of his brown suede shoe against the tie. He suddenly looks like he’s swimming in his milky brown trench coat. His wide-rimmed glasses slip a little off his face, but he doesn’t make the effort to push them back up. He gets lost in a two-week old memory—the last time he attempted conversation with Cas. Cas was standing at the copy machine. The long sleeves of his blue-striped shirt, which was enough to define his meaty arms, folded across his chest.

It wasn’t a very _open_ posture, but Dean had already been itching for a week prior, and weeks prior to _that,_ to say something beyond hi.

Of course, what actually came out of his mouth was, _“These machines, huh?”_

Needless to say, Dean was out of there faster than it took his own paper copies to sail to the ground.

“He’s… I don’t know. He’s different, okay?”

Sam pinches the bridge of his large nose before facing Dean with a stern hand. “Okay, _don’t_ say that.”

“Look, just... give me something. Anything.” Dean grins. “And I’ll let you get back to your orgy.”

“How about ‘Would you like to go out on a date with me?’”

Dean narrows his eyes, considering it. “Yeah…” His smile grows wider. “Yeah! That’s good! Thanks, Sammy!”

Instead, the words fly from his mouth faster than his ’67 Chevy during a drag race:

**“Wouldyouliketogooutonadatewithme?"**

Cas looks up at Dean and around the newly vacant auditorium.

Psychology is a largely-funded program at Lawrence. Martin Creaser, the old head of the Psychology department, used this room for his Forensic Psychology courses before his own psychotic break. People are already speculating Professor Castiel Novak from the University of Chicago is going to swipe his costly badge. He’s only been here for nearly a semester, but Dean’s heard the rumors of Cas’s impressive resume.

From _Dr._ Novak, a child psychiatrist at Pontiac Solutions, to an applied behavior analyst for a crime-riddled neighborhood in North Chicago, Dean, who relies on an extensive professional record in mixing and matching words, is rightfully intimidated by the handsome professor.

"I don't see why not," Cas replies, totally deadpan, attention back on the stack of papers he’s straightening. "You're attractive. And I know your salary, since we're both professors, so I know you're financially stable."

Dean can’t help it. His eyes blow wide before he scratches his shoulder with rake-like fingers, as if sweeping away the lucky salt that got stuck there. Dean was lingering in the doorway fifteen minutes prior—and that was ten minutes after Cas’s 11am let out. Seeing Cas, even fifty feet away, is overwhelming, with his circus-like hair—the scorching limbs of an untamable ring of fire—and equally pointy gray suit.

"R-right,” he stammers, “uhm... cool. And thank you, by the way. I'll pick you up at 8."

"Why would you need to pick me up?"

Dean shifts a little and laughs. He must be joking. But when Cas tilts his head a little, he repeats, "To go out… on a date?"

"That can't happen,” Cas sterns. "I mean, I _want_ to go on a date with you, but I can't go _out_ with you. I have to be home by 4, dinner by 5, Channel 10 News by 6. That’s how it always is. That's how it needs to be unless—"

Cas interrupts himself with a heavy sigh before straightening his gaze. He looks uncomfortable looking at Dean directly. Like Dean's the summer sun in the midst of June and Cas is forgetting his ultra-protection sunglasses. "I'm sorry, it's just... what I mean is I would love to go _in_ with you." The umbrellas above Cas's blue eyes fold over as an invisible storm his him. "Wait, no, that sounds vaguely dirty... well, by _your_ social etiquette, I'm assuming. To me, they're just words."

Dean clutches his chest. "That hurts, Cas. You should know better than to say that to an English Lit professor."

“My mistake, Dean.”

"That was a joke, Cas."

Cas narrows his eyes, but nods. "Ooh. Right… um, duh,” he says, trying for something that’s akin to a laugh before adding: “You’re sweating.”

Dean licks his lips with an anxious chuckle and shrug. He’s honest, anyway. “I was nervous.”

“Was it something I did?”

“Yes, Cas.” Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve wanted to ask you out for a while, but I never found the right words. Or _any_ words, for that matter. I kind of just seize up and hope for the best… which is normally death.”

“Oh yeah!” Cas exclaims, to Dean’s surprise. He shifts his gaze from Dean again as he continues on excitedly: “Dan Gutenberg actually conducted a study at Princeton related to that matter. He found a high correlation between panic attacks and romantic interest towards somebody _,”_ Cas scoffs, “I can’t imagine. I mean, social interaction is hard enough, but we can sacrifice our mental health for people we barely know and what they think of us? I mean, how can they even make an accurate judgment of us?”

Dean’s lips turn up. Feeling some of his usual confidence seep back into him, he rests his hand on the edge of Cas’s desk. “You raise a fair point. Let me rephrase: How about I get to know you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Cas agrees, smiling, though his blue eyes brush past him like waves against the hull of a ship, looking somewhere far off into the spacious room. “I suppose that would eliminate the anxiety portion, and hopefully insight less panic attacks. There hasn’t been a study to fund this theory, but I nonetheless look forward to our date.” Then he shifts his focus back to him: “Thank you very much for asking me, Dean.”

Dean’s lips unfold into a full-on smile. “Cool, um, you’re welcome, me _t-ahh_ —!” Dean loses all that confidence he regained nearly falling off the stage. Luckily, Cas isn’t looking at him to notice—no one except the half a dozen students now piling the auditorium. “I’ll, uhm… see you at five then.”

“Wear your coat,” Cas says as he’s about to slip out. Dean makes the mistake of looking back at Cas, who has a tiny grin on his face, despite looking at his desk. “I like it.”

Yeah, Dean can get used to this whole honesty thing.

*~*

Dean shows up at Cas’s house as he’s braced against the screen door.

“Cas?” he hears him ask. He can’t tell if he’s wary or worried. It only puts more pressure on his chest. “Is everything okay?”

Cas manages to pivot his body to face Dean. His temples throb against his thin, cranium walls. It takes everything in him just to speak—and what comes out isn’t even what he _wants_ to say. He doesn’t know why he says it either, and that makes him even more frustrated: “I’m fine; I’m just a little faint from the hunger.”

Luckily, Dean doesn’t move closer. Cas can’t handle a stampede right now. “Ooh, I thought we were eating in.”

 _I thought so too,_ Cas thinks, mentally cursing himself as he drinks Dean in. He’s wearing that brownie-colored jacket he likes. It’s creased like drizzled chocolate around the checkered cuff of the blue flannel underneath ( _Is that a simile? I hate similes_ ) to accommodate the dozen red roses in his large palms. Cas’s eyes move lower, to his dark blue jeans and blue suede shoes, before panning back up.

Dean’s smile flickers like a candle in the wind, and Cas can’t even place that likeness until the moment it does, when he realizes just how quick his body turns cold. ( _I hate metaphors. Why did I make a metaphor?)_

“Thank you,” Cas says, taking careful steps towards Dean before grabbing the flowers, “for the roses, I mean. They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Cas shuts his eyes immediately after those words come out. The worst part is they didn’t slip; they were deliberate. He consciously pulled those words from his vocabulary and stuck them in there to make sure Dean knows he’s appreciated. People like to be acknowledged.

Just not so _excessively._

Luckily, the comment sets Dean’s smile ablaze again, even wilder than before. It’s a nice smile. It lifts his freckles and crinkles his bright green eyes. “I don’t know about that,” he says, scratching his neck. From what Cas has learned, it’s a nervous tick. He wishes he could stop making Dean nervous. “But thanks, and you’re welcome. I didn’t know if flowers were a thing to give another dude on a date. This is my first date with guy.”

“This is my first date, period,” Cas states. Dean’s mouth drops. “Is something wrong?”

“I, uhm…” Dean shakes his head with a scoff, “Sorry, no offense to you personally, it’s just hard to believe someone so attractive _and_ successful isn’t America’s Most Wanted Bachelor.”

“Does success equate to attractiveness?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah… yeah, in most cases, unfortunately.”

“Huh. Well, I suppose that makes sense, actually, considering Herimstein’s study on rats and how cheese they could carry on their—” Cas cuts himself off with a laugh. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

Dean shrugs as he holds out his arms. “You were on a roll. Besides, where we’re going, we’re gonna need all the knowledge of rats we can have.”

“What’s—?”

“You left me no choice,” Dean attests. Cas can tell by the contradicting grin on his face that he’s joking. Or at least he hopes so. No offense to rats, but he wants nothing to do with them. “Luckily for you, I already picked up dinner from _Lafitte’s Lagoon_ for us to eat in _here_ or at the drive-in. It’s your call.”

Despite dread weaving its way through his lungs at the thought of going to the movies, Cas manages to reply, “The drive-in is fine.”

The drive-in is _not_ fine.

Not only are there neighboring cars harboring other people who glance over at Cas every so often, but the movie is a romance. He hates horror films, but he would take watching someone’s head get sawed off by a forest-dwelling monster over seeing two people fall in love any day.

Not that Cas is opposed to love. He’s just never understood getting entangled in something so seemingly convoluted. If it were simpler, if it were founded and backed by years of scientific studies, maybe he could grasp it. But it’s hard when he can’t even grasp onto his own feelings and what they mean sometimes. To do the same for another person is, what he _can_ determine, terrifying. The thought of hurting someone poses too great a risk. If anything, he admires these love-struck fools.

The title rolls, and Cas sees it’s called _The Princess Bride._ It’s not the only thing rolling, however, when a little boy starts reading from a book. Of course: It’s a _story_ book. Cas hates fairytales. He probably would enjoy them a lot more without all the extra fluff. He sees no need for metaphors or analogies, not when he can say exactly what’s on his mind. It’s another convoluted concept to him.

Although, he has to admit, it is a funny movie.

He looks over at Dean halfway through and the expression on his face is enough for him to drop everything he’s just thought about romantic films. He’s so free, laughing the same way he would breathe—naturally, without complications or restraint. The light from the screen brings out his freckles even more and exposes the creases around his eyes—things a person would potentially be insecure about while Dean is too busy living.

“Ready, ready, this is my favorite part,” he says, reaching out with his hand in a way that reminds Cas of ET. His pointer finger nearly touches the window by the time his favorite part actually comes, but Dean is still too drunk off his freed inhibitions to notice how strange it looks. “‘ _My name is Inigo Montoya,”_ he mouths in time to the actor that plays him, “’ _you killed my father, prepare to die!’”_

Cas breaks into a gummy smile. He can’t say why he finds Dean’s action amusing, but he knows he likes it.

Maybe he has this all wrong.

Maybe he can learn a thing or two from _Dean._

He thinks this as he’s reaching for the popcorn between them. Dean’s hand does the same, and they brush. Cas takes a deep breath and musters a small laugh—a signal to not only Dean, but to himself that it’s okay: “Sorry, I didn’t know you were…”

“I didn’t even realize I was,” Dean laughs, hand snapping to the back of his neck instead. He’s nervous again.

Cas’s feelings match Dean’s when Dean fixes his gaze on him for longer than necessary and leans in. Cas whips his head the opposite direction.

The car falls silent. Cas can feel everyone’s eyes on him more than ever—Dean’s the heaviest.

“C-can you take me home?” he asks, hating how his voice sounds.

Hating this movie and this car and these people and everything that led him to the verge of another panic attack. Hating Dean starting the car after a moment’s pause and backing out of the drive-in.

And, for once, hating the quiet that comes with the drive home.

*~*

"Becky, where's Sam? It’s an emergency.”

"Well, he just had lunch—a turkey salad with those pecan packets from that ice cream shop down the road— and since today's Friday, he's in his office for tutoring. Better hurry though, he leaves in five minutes."

"You really have to stop... all of this," Dean says, gesturing to the short sum of the sex-crazed blonde student. "But thanks for the fact about the lunch. I’ll definitely use that against him at every given opportunity.”

Heart pounding, Dean speeds off down the hall. Since Humanities is lumped with Psychology, being a much smaller department with fewer professors, he passes the shared teacher’s lounge.

Well, _almost._

“Cas?” Dean gentles, leaning against the door frame. “Cas. Hey, um, so… what’s all this?”

“Teacher evaluations. They’re mostly negative so far.” Cas flips page after page as he quotes, ‘He says whatever he wants, whenever he wants.’ ‘He’s very passive.’ ‘He’s not sensitive to students’ needs.’”

Dean walks in and drops his duffel next to the chair he pulls out for himself. “I’m sure they can’t all be bad. Can I?”

“Be my guest,” Cas says before Dean steals half the stack. It takes him no more than a few seconds to find a few bangers: “Here you go: ‘He’s refreshingly straight-forward. Doesn’t give or take BS in his classes.’ ‘He’s genuinely interested in what he teaches.’ ‘He answers everyone’s questions thoroughly. If you put in the effort, he’ll do the same for you.’”

Cas glances over to read off that last paper. Dean will take the small smile that crosses his face as a job well done—even though it’s technically _Cas’s_ job well done. “It’s hard sometimes, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” Dean returns with the same honesty Cas gives him and his students. He props his hands on the table to show he’s not going anywhere. “Cas, what is it? What’re you afraid to tell me?”

Cas turns his head away, though this time it’s more intentional. When he turns back to look at Dean, his smile is replaced with a small frown. “I have Asperger’s Syndrome. It’s a high-functioning, mild form of autism, but I’d hardly call it mild. I mean, I experience it every day, and it can be lonely. Isolating. Sometimes I feel like I’m in space looking down on a world that’s turning without me.”

Dean nods slowly before shaking his head with a scoff, “Shit, man.” As natural as it is for Dean, he tries not to dwell in his own self-loathing. He knows it won’t do either of them any good. So, to substitute, he asks: “Um… sorry if this is a weird question, but how is it someone with high-functioning autism is interested in Social Psychology?”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Cas says, smiling, “In fact, I encourage it. No one ever asks. People tend to just emphasize my physical accomplishments, rather than my emotional and mental ones. I had to go through years of therapy—still do—before I could even consider helping others like myself. And I _still_ find myself trying to pick up on simple things like social cues, or just trying to look at someone in the eyes.”

“I don’t think they’re simple,” Dean replies. “Hell, especially looking someone in the eye. I’ve let people down more times than I can count. That guilt, it messes with your head.”

“That’s just the thing; I have a hard time understanding guilt. Or any emotion. I feel emotion, but I don’t…” Cas pauses to breathe. “That’s why I devoted my life to psychology. I wanted an inside look into the mind of a neurotypical—a normally functioning person like yourself. Someone who has insight, even if just a sliver, as to why they feel the way they do. I wanted to gain that same insight.”

Cas smiles before continuing, “See, Dean, the one thing that unites us is our feelings towards… well, _feelings._ I don’t want them as much as you do. I think they’re just as much of a nuisance and a complete, monumental waste of energy.” He pauses, looking out at the other profs passing by the lounge, laughing and chatting and probably chugging a fifth cup of coffee in eight hours. “But sometimes, they can connect us to the world. Sometimes, they can break us from our cycle to introduce us to something extraordinary.”

“Like when I asked you out,” Dean muses with a laugh. “Huh. Your routine… is that why you broke it? For _me_?”

“Dean, I have Asperger’s and even _I’m_ not that oblivious.”

“Cas, I’m sorry I put you in that position. If I had known…”

“What?” Cas asks, eyebrows lifting. “You would’ve held back from something potentially extraordinary?”

Dean’s own eyes perk up. “You would’ve kissed me back?”

“No. No, I probably would’ve had a meltdown,” Cas laughs, “but you’re right, you didn’t know better. But you were taking a chance. Just like I was. Just like I should be doing more often. Practice what you teach, right?”

Dean eyes him, but not in a bad way. “Why do I get the vibe you’re talking about us kissing?”

“Normally, I would be opposed to it,” Cas states, eyes dropping lower on the map of Dean’s face, “but right now, your lips look very enticing.”

“No objections here.”

Dean lets Cas initiate the kiss. Cas moves slow, first placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder, then the other on the side of his face. His chest visibly rises and falls. Unlike last night outside his house, this is a conscious effort to breathe. Dean reassures him with a smile. Cas returns the gesture before leaning in.

Their lips meet, and though it’s strictly a black-and-white, close-mouthed kiss, Dean’s mind bursts with color. Cas’s lips are chapped but soft, like a pillow in need of fluffing, and Dean’s lips are the thing for the job.

He stops himself amid reaching out and pulling Cas closer. Cas’s right hand leaves his face to cover Dean’s newly balled fist. Dean opens his eyes to see Cas nod. “It’s okay,” he encourages, smiling with gums. He strokes his thumb across Dean’s stark-white cheeks. “You can touch me.”

Dean accepts the invitation, resting his hand on Cas’s arm. Cas leans into the touch. They continue like this for a good minute, just testing and exploring each other’s lips, before Dean pulls back. “Wow,” he breathes, “that was…”

“‘Inconceivable!’”

Dean blinks a few times.

“I was… quoting the… um…”

“Cas, I’m gonna kiss you again.”

Cas laughs and reaches out again with his right hand, this time to thread his fingers through Dean’s hair. “As you wish.”

**Epilogue**

_Thanksgiving Day, 2020_

“Cas, babe, can you pass me the gravy?” Dean asks. “And don’t spill it this time.”

Cas scoffs, deliberately withholding the kettle-shaped porcelain mug with his ring hand. “That was _one_ time! Besides, it’s not like I go to the gym with my students after class every other day. Don’t expect physical perfection and gracefulness.”

“Please, you love Jo,” Dean argues without any real heat—unlike the gravy that’s still fresh from the pot, “she wears me out enough so you don’t have to deal with me later.”

“Oh I’ll ‘deal’ with you later,” Cas threatens with air quotes as Dean tries to reach for the gravy over mountains of turkey legs on his plate. “Ah, ah, no. You have to apologize. Reciprocity is a two-way street, Dean.”

“Can I kiss you instead?”

Cas rolls his eyes after setting down the gravy, igniting laughter from both Sam and his fiancée Eileen across the table.

“Wow,” Sam scoffs, “I’ve never heard my brother so… _mild-tempered.”_

“I’ll say,” Eileen remarks between giggles, “I hate to even ask him for advice when Sam gets fussy.”

 _It’s his hair, isn’t it?_ Cas signs with a small smile. _I’ve noticed it’s been looking a little drab._

Eileen knocks enthusiastically with her balled fist. _I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed. I’m honestly worried for him._

_I was a psychiatrist, I notice these things. Keep an eye on him. If he starts to eat whole servings of meat, call me._

“I can understand you, you know _,”_ Sam interrupts as Eileen bursts out laughing again.

Though, like brother like brother, there’s no heat behind it—if the large grin on his face is any indication. Honestly, Dean pulling his head out of his ass is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Not only because Sam doesn’t have to hear his whining and griping anymore, but Eileen has someone to relate to while he still masters the mechanics of ASL. Cas explained that, before being diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder at age 5, his parents introduced him to ASL for his extreme social anxiety. That way, whenever Cas’s throat seized up in public, he could safely and confidentially articulate to his parents.

He says he rarely signs nowadays, but has a few friends on the autism spectrum who have a more severe diagnosis and also utilize sign, so he’s been able to retain it.

And now he has Sam’s future wife, Eileen, who, in time, will be Cas’s sister-in-law. Cas says he’s never had a sister and claims they’re a perfect match, because Eileen can’t physically hear him ask “those pesky, neurotypically correct” questions, and Cas can’t always tell when she’s embarrassed herself.

(Though, he’s been getting a lot better at identifying the feeling when Dean keeps tripping over his words, falling for Cas all over again every day. It’s a statement that’s unlike Dean to actually share, but be completely obvious with his body language, so he’s glad Cas is picking up on it.)

Sam watches as Dean goes along with it, waving his hand in front of Cas as proper deaf etiquette. Cas swivels his head with heavy dramatics, only to see Dean pressing the fat tip of his smushed fingers together eagerly. It’s the sign for kiss.

“Why is _that_ the only sign you remember?!” Cas bellows, sending the whole table into a flurry of laughter. Eventually though, he gives into Dean’s request.

Sam smiles—until he sees Dean’s tongue start to bob on the surface of Cas’s lips. “Hey, hey! Guys! Dean, I don’t wanna go all John Winchester on you and break out the dad tone, but if you make out over my gravy—!”

Yeah, despite the PDA, he can get used to this whole Dean-being-way-less-of-a-dick thing.


End file.
